One Day
by ruth baulding
Summary: A single moment in time, on five different planets. A birth, an election, a discovery, a marriage, and a mission. Because all things are mysteriously united in the Force.
1. Chapter 1

**One Day**

I.

The slave woman screamed.

And screamed, again. The small room filled with the agonized sounds, more like those of an animal than a sentient – deep, visceral cries of pain and effort. A pause, in which to catch a heaving breath or two, trembling gasps of air between assaults.

The other slaves, mostly women in this section, went about their business. It was not uncommon to hear a fellow unfortunate in the throes of some punishment. But this was something other – something better, and worse. Better, because it ended in joy. Worse, because every joy a slave possessed was another thing waiting to be torn from her hands by a capricious owner, by the same cruel fate which had sold her into bondage in the first place.

Another scream, trailing into a grunting moan, and then another. A shout, a wordless cry of inescapable agony, of mind-wrenching pain…and then a great gasp of relief and collapse.

The voice of the midwife could be heard then, ordering her makeshift assistants – little more than other slaves – to get this, bring that quickly. A different kind of scream pierced the air. Loud, shrill, strong, full of new life. A baby screamed for the first time, his tiny lungs filling with air and then expelling it in ear-piercing shrieks.

"You are blessed - the child is strong!" the midwife smiled. She swaddled the infant boy in strips of clean cloth, as was the custom on this planet. His shoulders bore the promise of future power, the kick of his legs as he resisted the encompassing bands of cloth bespoke a spirit not easily quelled.

"Give him to me. Let me have him," the exhausted mother begged.

The other slaves peeked in now, through the doorway. The mother clasped the baby to her breast, face streaked with sweat and tears. Bloody cloths scattered over the floor, and flies already idly buzzed among them, carried in on the sweltering breeze filtering through the stone-grated window. The stained ceiling and cracked floor bespoke only poverty; but for one moment, one blissful moment, the slave woman was infinitely rich.

"My son," she crooned. "My beautiful baby son."

* * *

><p>The crowd screamed.<p>

Or perhaps it was more of a cheer, an exultant, happy shout of victory. Yes, that was what it was; it would never do to focus on the razor-thin boundary between a cheering crowd and an angry mob. Only the few who understood the true nature of Power would see the deadly poison in the heart of mass emotions. And he was not – officially – one who understood Power.

No, he was one who only accepted Power reluctantly, because it was the will of the people, these dear, dear people who had just elected him Senator to their insignificant planet. These dear, dear people who had no understanding of Power whatsoever. Who had child-Queens ruling them; who kept only a small security force to defend them against the galaxy's ills; who valued art and culture and courtesy more than alliances and factories and propaganda. His people.

The current ruler approached, flanked by a retinue of other girl children. The Queen herself had to work hard to keep the ridiculous headdress balanced atop her head. Her painted face, with its precise red accents and pale white visage, was grave as only a child can be grave.

"Queen Melidala," the newly-elected Senator greeted her, with his most avuncular smile. "It is my honor to serve our people by your side."

The little girl looked up at him, through the mask of the makeup and the ornate jewelry, and her green eyes shone with admiration and trust. "It is a great comfort to me that our people's cause will be in such capable hands, Senator," she intoned. Goodness, she must have rehearsed that speech quite perfectly last night. He noted that it could have been made to whichever man won the election; such was the nature of politics. While the Queen was a child, those who stood behind her – the advisors and tutors and the captain of the Guard - were not. He would do well to remember that. Power never underestimated its opponents. The Queen was in many respects a decoy, a smoke screen which disguised the real balance of power on this world.

He knew all about that – oh, so much about it. If only they could guess.

He held out one arm in the ceremonial style, and the infant Queen took it. She allowed him to escort her inside the royal palace, where the official banquet was to be held in his honor. The best of everything was to be laid out to mark this occasion. He smiled at the tawdry display of wealth: marble, crystal, silk and brocade, precious metals and servants everywhere. It was but dross – signifying nothing. The real riches were those he held now invisibly. And those he would never let go.

"Ah," he murmured in his most genteel manner. "I am quite overwhelmed."

* * *

><p>The saber blade screamed.<p>

That's how it sounded, anyway. The truth was different, as the truth so often is. A lightsaber blade is perfectly silent and still, as balanced and pure as the Force itself. It is the air _around_ the blade which seems to scream, as that hyper-focused edge of light sears through it. The air burns and shimmers and vibrates, sometimes in multiple tones. Particularly when the wielder of the blade performs a kata at such velocity that his motion is a blur of violet fire. Then the very space shatters and is set alight, and sings a high, ecstatic note to the ear.

The Jedi Master finished his warm up, and the sound stilled to a low hum, like the meditative _om_ of a recluse monk on some stone sanctuary long ago. In fact, the truth was not only different than appearances, it was also more complex. The blade was silent, compared to the air surrounding it. It was the silent center of that sound. And the man holding the blade, the Jedi – he was the silent center of the blade's motion. And the heart of that man – the Jedi's heart – was a silent center of his actions. And the center of that heart – which was the Force itself, for a Jedi's heart is a window open on infinity – was a silent center of the man. And so they co-existed in hierarchy, these concentric spheres, each containing a more precious and purified center, each sustained and made whole by its own center, down to that core which was everything and nothing at once.

This was balance. To master balance, one must be balance. One must know that what appears dark is sometimes dark only in relation to a pure light at the center, as the sun eclipses and darkens its own lesser halo of light. So: the lightsaber form might appear dark; but not the man using it. And that man might appear wrathful, but not his heart. Always the light stayed in the center, and the dark at the periphery, where it was subject and ruled by the Light.

This was his discovery. His invention. He felt filled with gratitude for the honor of discovering it, for the treasure of understanding it. He wanted nothing more than to share this wealth with another.

He went to find his teacher, as a child goes to share some delightful token with its parent. He went to find Yoda.

* * *

><p>The peacocks screamed.<p>

Funny, the Prince reflected, that here on the steps of the cathedral, deafened by a cheering, weeping crowd of friends and family, by the sonorous notes of the finest orchestra in the sector, by the tolling of great bells and even by the joyful drum of his own heart in his ears, that he should pick out that one sound. The graceful, brightly plumed birds strutted across the lawn, their heads high. The largest among them lifted his magnificent tail to the sun and shook out its exquisite length, displaying his finery to the golden star as though in clear, self-confident challenge.

Perhaps it was because a small part of him felt the same. He felt that the very heavens could not outrival him for glorious happiness. On his arm, by his side, so close he could smell her perfume, was Breha Antilles, hereditary ruler of their world, and chosen ruler of his heart. The priests had just bound them in holy wedlock, man and wife forever until the stars were sundered from their thrones, and he knew in his heart that even this would not quell his love for her.

Passion maybe – he was wise enough to know that this lesser feeling would mellow with the passing decades. But not yet. He was almost rude to the Vice Premier, because he was so enraptured with Breha's hair, and the way the silk of her white gown slid over the smooth curve of her arm, the way the light caught the regal lines of her nose and cheeks, the perfect dimple beneath her lip.

The Premier was his uncle by marriage, and a man of experience. He winked at his grand-nephew's lapse in attention and fell into place behind the couple as they descended the steps together. A transport was waiting – elegant, understated but beautifully engineered. The Prince felt a swell of pride at all that his people, their people had accomplished. At all they still might do. There were hints of corruption in the Core, of a crumbling of the old ways and the old values. Here life was not yet tarnished. Here the ancient Republic's values and virtues still thrived. If he lived for anything, it was for that. And for Breha, his one and true love.

He stole another glance at her as they floated gently away down the main concourse toward the banqueting hall where the wedding reception awaited them. Her dark eyes slid sideways to peer at him under a veil of gentle lashes. Those eyes held kindness and compassion and wise counsel for all. But for him, they held something more. Infinitely more.

He settled back in the seat of the expensive vehicle, in his exquisite clothing, amid his retinue and the pomp and splendour of his station, and knew that even were he reduced to rags and starvation, he was the richest man in the galaxy.

"Breha," he murmured so that only she could hear. "Let's skip the reception."

Her eyes laughed. But she only said, "No, my lord. We must not be so selfish."

And he loved her the more for it.

* * *

><p>The young man screamed.<p>

It wasn't really something for which he could be faulted. He was flesh and blood, and only sixteen years old. And the deadly-thin flechette which had just pierced straight through his shoulder _hurt._ Force, it hurt. But he felt ashamed for the outburst anyway, and snapped his mouth shut in the next instant, blue eyes screwing up with controlled pain and renewed determination.

He switched to a one-handed style, grateful that it had not been his sword arm that took the blow. His lightsaber flashed and danced, its pattern shifting to a frantic defensive blur as he deflected bolts and tiny sharp projectiles back at the ruthless mercenaries advancing down the corridor. At his back was the blast sealed door to the murderers' targets – the Poojam and his entire cabinet. This was an assassination and robbery attempt that would not succeed. Behind the blast door,the Poojam was in a state of high dudgeon, shrieking and yelling, his emotions a muddy smear sensed through the Force.

"Stand aside, whelp," the foremost of the assassins growled, raising a fist to signal a temporary cease-fire. His slatted eyes rested on the thrumming lightsaber blade briefly before sliding up to the startling red stain spreading on the Jedi's cream tunics. "Or it'll be over yer dead body."

"I don't think so." The Poojam might be a fool, but the Jedi were assigned to his protection. Lives were at stake. There would be no _standing aside_.

The villain waved a clawed hand and his company let loose again, hammering at their obstinate foe until he found his back hitting the blast doors. His saber moved continuously, ahead of thought, barely intercepting the plasma bolts and razors shot at his torso and head. He used both hands, the pain in his left shoulder blurring into the scream of the saber as he battled to defend himself, and the doors, from the attack. The assassins fell as their bolts slammed into their own bodies, one by one, until only the leader remained. He fired his blaster point blank at the Jedi, knocking the saber clear out of his hand, and sunk an armored fist into the bleeding flechette wound in the boy's shoulder. With a wicked grin he raised the blaster one last time –

-and then completely lost his head. A sweep of thrumming fire cut it from his body, leaving the hulking torso and legs to gracelessly topple to the floor a second later.

Behind the fallen Togorian stood another Jedi, leonine features highlighted in cold green by his saber's blade.

" Master…" the Padawan protested. . "The Treasury…!"

But the tall Jedi only shook his head. Let the remaining pirates take the entire contents of the Poojam's precious money-vault. He had abandoned his post at that end of the compound as soon as he had felt the danger to his apprentice. "I have more important treasures to protect," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. He reached out to grip his student's arm.

"Well then…" The boy offered a wicked, if somewhat unsteady, grin. "What took you so long?"


	2. Chapter 2

**One Day**

II.

The droid's face was expressionless as it stood guard in the corner.

As though she was going anywhere, the new mother snorted. As though she were not fitted with a slave tracking implant that could blow her to bits if she strayed too far from her owner's home. As though she had the strength to go anywhere after the grueling birth. She was still bleeding. As though the infant she clasped protectively in her arms were not the surest tether in and of himself. To venture far in the wilderness outside with this delicate new life in tow would be madness. The baby would be dead of heat exposure within a day or two.

The droid was a mere formality. A show of power, to remind her that not only was her own life not her own, but her son's life was also forfeit, sold into slavery before he had even completed his first day of life. He was begotten in slavery, steeped in slavery, born and bred into it. He was doomed. A single tear trickled down the mother's nose. She was long past weeping for her own wasted life. But this….was much worse.

Soon enough the slave master came, his stump-like tusks slick with the oils and juices of his evening meal, fermented drink heavy on his breath. His fat fingers snapped a slaver's bracelet around the baby's ankle, making the boy startle awake and scream. A snort of contempt, and he was gone, taking the droid with him.

The mother toyed with the heavy piece of metal encircling the soft skin of the infant's foot. It was cold, and unyielding, and annoyed the tiny boy immensely. He whimpered and writhed, but the thing was part of him now, as surely as a brand. They branded slaves on some worlds – the mother shuddered. She could not bear to think of her boy's perfect white skin marred by anything.

She calmed his cries of distress with her milk – real, human milk, a small miracle on this dry barren world. Soon enough he would have to be weaned to blue bantha milk – her body would never meet the demands put on it with the additional stress of hard work, little sleep, and malnutrition. The baby should enjoy these first sweet moments while he could.

She watched his blue eyes slowly close in sleep, and she prayed. She didn't even know to whom or what she prayed; the impulse simply came, and she obeyed. "Let him be someone," she pleaded. "Not this. Not a slave. Not like me. Anything. Something good, and meaningful and free. " Even as she uttered the words, she felt their weight. Such miracles did not happen without a price. "Whatever it takes. Even if I have to give him up and never see him again."

And that was the worst part. She did not know whether she longed for this prayer to be granted…or whether she dreaded it. In the end, she could not untangle one emotion from the other, and the deep exhaustion of the birthing overcame her. The baby's head lolled against her breast, and she nodded her head against his fuzzy scalp, and slept.

* * *

><p>The droid's face was expressionless as it made the proper introductions.<p>

Sometimes he thought that the only thing in the galaxy that had a more perfect mask than he possessed was a protocol droid. Gleaming silver faceplate perpetually frozen in a bland, non-offensive semblance of sentience, the cybernetic manikin stiffly intoned the expected formalities, never making a mistake and only conveying the most vapid sentiments. It was a masterpiece of banality.

He roused himself from such thoughts far enough to notice that the droid was now introducing him to one of the planetary council's most charismatic and influential members….what was the man's name? Naberrie, yes. He grasped the man's hand in a firm grip.

"Senator," Naberrie was saying, smiling widely as he used the new title. "It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am a great admirer of yours."

Fool. But a useful fool. He made a mental note to ingratiate himself into this man's confidence. It was from families such as this man's that the future rulers of the planet might be elected. There – the fellow had daughters. One of them, perhaps. The youngest was a pretty thing. No, an exquisite little thing, like a china doll made by artisans on Teleucia. She was only five or six years old, but her petite features already glowed with uncommon beauty. She would turn heads when she was older, there could be no doubt. A woman who knew how to use such a gift to her own advantage was a force to be reckoned with - she might taste a little echo of true Power, which enchants those whom it deceives.

But such subtle skill had to be taught from a young age, and Naberrie's daughter was unlikely to receive the requisite tutelage at her father's bumbling hands. No, so much potential wasted. He smiled indulgently as the little girl made him a polite courtesy.

Then he sensed it – the Force played about her in a disturbing way. Alerted to the currents of the future, he saw the precious little tot in a new light, as a rare blossom still furled tight on the branch, a white bud ready to unfurl and reveal some awful, devastating flower, some …some _thing…_He was seized with a sudden dark desire to reach out and nip the bud, squeeze its life off before it could bloom.

But that would never do, would it? He would have to wait and see what this rare flower might be, what this young woman would become. There was time. He bowed back to her with perfect patronizing charm, forcing the demons within back into their dark hiding places. Gradually the fierce, murderous urge cooled and withdrew, retreating into the dark places in his soul, and there it slept.

* * *

><p>The droids were expressionless as they fell, smoking and destroyed, to the floor.<p>

They were only training remotes, after all. And it was just as well that they had no power of expression – because Master Yoda's grim disapproval and growing alarm were more than enough for all of them.

Mace Windu finished the first part of his demonstration and powered down his saber, without turning around to meet Yoda's eyes. He didn't need to. He could feel the ancient teacher's silent growl thrumming in the Force. But he had expected that – had even hoped for it. Only such an unsettling display might be enough to tempt the venerable master to make the offer…

"Hmmmph!" the diminutive Jedi grunted. His gimer stick clattered to the floor beside him, and the swish and buzz of a small saber sounded in the dim light of the sparring salon. It was night, and there were no other witnesses to this meeting. "A better match, you need."

Mace turned at last, grinning widely. Yoda launched into his attack without prelude, without warning, without the ceremonial salute. Mace felt the roar of the Force as the little Master unleashed a tidal wave of strength upon him, a swelling wall of power that threatened to snuff his fire in an instant. He felt the immensity of the Light, and made himself transparent, so that the wave passed through him like sunshine through transparisteel, doing no harm and warming him with its fullness. He blocked and parried the flurry of attacks, caught in the motion of Yoda's strength, one thing with it, letting it push and pull him where it willed.

As he defended himself, feeling the master's attention resting on him with piercing clarity, he began to weave his own pattern in the wave. He condensed and centered the Light within his very core, so that all the thundering stillness of the light was drawn inward. He pushed the void, the incompleteness, the longing, to the periphery until his heart was nestled in a burning peace, and anything that was not-Light was utterly excluded. And then he pushed this darkness away from him, casting it outward in a storm of explosive power.

He felt the difference. He felt Yoda shift into defense, into a creative, desperate use of the Force he had seldom resorted to in past centuries; he felt the battle transform from a perfect kata into an unparalleled legendary duel; he felt the old Jedi move from respect to wide-eyed admiration and something close to disbelief. They fought, green blade clashing with purple, until Yoda learned the trick.

That was Mace's mistake. The instant the old one had the new style figured out, he turned it upon its creator. Mace stumbled beneath the new onslaught, dropping his saber. The contest had gone beyond blows. He found his hurricane of darkness snuffed and dispersed, sucked into eternal void, and he felt his center begin to uncoil…to dissolve…

"Master!" he gasped, falling onto one knee and clutching at his chest.

Yoda flicked one hand and toppled him backward, leaping onto his chest with two clawed feet. The master gathered a fistful of Mace's tunics in one hand and leaned down close, into his face. "Flirt with darkness, do you?" he rasped in a terrible voice. "At your own peril do you this."

"Yes, master."

"Hmmmph. Speak of this again tomorrow we will. Meditate on it I must."

"Yes, master."

As Mace wearily tramped back to his quarters, he wondered just how damn foolish he had been. The look on Yoda's face, the way his eyes had blazed into Mace's very soul as he held him pinned – that was something the Jedi master would never forget. He dragged two hands over his face and released his worries into the Force. Then he dropped onto his thin mattress and stretched out his long limbs. He lay quiet in the dark, feeling abruptly and disconcertingly like a chastised Padawan again. Had he gone too far? Was he on a dangerous path? What should he say to Yoda in the morning? The thoughts would not leave his tired mind, nor his tired mind turn to anything else. It was a long time before he finally slept.

* * *

><p>The droid was expressionless as it waited politely at the threshold.<p>

It was not Alderaanian custom to employ cybernetics as domestic servants, but some thoughtful soul must have realized that the newlyweds might appreciate the privacy and discretion afforded by a non-sentient valet on this, their all too brief honeymoon. The Prince eyed the droid up and down. It wasn't a standard model protocol unit either – he had seen schematics of this fellow before. It was called a Footman, unless he was much mistaken. His great grandfather had owned one back in the day, when such things were fashionable. Somebody must have dug it out of the cellar and dusted it off for the grand occasion.

"I am sorry to disturb you and Lady Organa," the thing intoned.

Lady Organa! What a ring that had to it. But the knocking and chiming upon the door had indeed been disturbing. "What is it?" he inquired, more curtly than he had intended. It was not the droid's fault.

It didn't register his ill temper. Or it was too well programmed to respond. "The collective media representatives are most eager to know when you will appear for an interview. What shall I tell them?"

"Tell them all to go to the nine hells," the Prince grumbled.

"Yes, sir," his Footman demurred, and began striding down the lushly carpeted hall, it servos whirring smoothly.

"No. Wait!" he called after it, immediately regretting his breach of conduct. What right had he to more than a single night of bliss? This was the price he paid for his station in life, a privilege he could never repay. "Tell them the interview will be this afternoon. And arrange a luncheon for them while they wait – can you do that?"

"I can do _anything_, sir," the robot informed him with a sniff. There was something in its air that suggested it meant this quite literally.

"Thank you," the Prince dismissed it.

He let the polished door slide shut on its hydraulics and padded back to the bedroom, to the fortress-like four-poster bed in which his Lady reclined, her dark hair tumbling over the pillows. With a sigh he climbed back in beside her, pushing all thoughts of the annoying Footman and the still more annoying media representatives out of his mind. A moment later, Breha stirred and turned toward him with a small sigh. Their hands clasped together; and for another hour or so of stolen time, they slept.

* * *

><p>The droid was expressionless as it carefully mended the flechette wound.<p>

In fact, it was more than expressionless. It was empty. It was a hole in the Force, a little eddy of inorganic energy where the senses falsely suggested a living being. This did not normally disturb him; what modern person was not well accustomed to droids? There were droids everywhere, even at the Jedi Temple. They performed menial tasks, coordinated complicated navigational movements, kept records, and were generally underfoot. It was not droids he minded. It was _medical _droids.

It was the Force-emptiness, hovering over him and poking and prodding at him when he was in a vulnerable condition_, _that made MD 44 and all his brethren so intolerable. His master was aware of his opinion on the matter, but did not indulge it. There was no room in a Jedi's life for such personal quirks, and Master Qui Gon Jinn was a great believer in accepting whatever help was at hand, in adjusting to circumstances. He had been strict and unyielding about the decision to have the injury treated quickly at the local medcenter.

A small and hyper-aware part of his mind – the part he had shuttered off from the effects of the numerous drugs MD 44 had seen fit to flood into his system – noted that the surgical room was uncommonly busy. Even the droid seemed annoyed by the incessant interruptions. There was a human assistant with datapads – medical records downloaded from Coruscant. (Why in the blazes did they need his full history to glue shut one little puncture wound?) Another bustling clerk with permission and release forms. (Nobody asked him before they shot at him, so why ask permission to clean up the mess?) There was Qui Gon, watching with wary eyes. (Did he secretly distrust the droid too? Or did he suspect that his apprentice was using the Force to interfere with the anaesthetics and sedatives?) Some busy-body from the Poojam's people, inquiring after his health, and when would the Jedi be able to return to duty? (Hopefully Qui Gon gave the twit a piece of his mind). Another officious person from the local police constabulary, wanting information about the decapitated Togorian. (Qui Gon disappeared for a few minutes and then returned, sending little tremors of irritation through the Force.) An assistant with _more_ surgical supplies, tubes and probes and bacta injectors and stars knew what else.(How blasted _long_ was this going to take?) He flinched as the droid inserted some new instrument into his shoulder. (Maybe there was a downside to accelerated metabolizing of the pain killers?…ah. Yes. Definite downside.)

"Hm," MD 44 remarked, checking the vital stats monitor.

"IS there a problem?" That was Qui Gon's voice, soft but sharp with intelligence.

"That was an automatic sensory-motor response, inconsistent with the nerve blocker dosage I administered," the medic blandly droned. It checked more monitors. "Hm."

The Jedi master leaned in close, his keen grey eyes peering into his young student's face with a penetrating expression that was ten percent amusement and ninety percent suspicion. "And why is that?" he inquired.

"Hm," the young Jedi managed, much to his own dark amusement.

Qui Gon's mouth twitched at the mild impertinence. "That's quite enough, Padawan." His brows drew together. "We will discuss this later. In the meantime…" his fingers brushed against the boy's temples. "You may proceed," he added to MD 44.

The droid medic did proceed; but his patient remembered nothing more about it, for he had slipped into a deep, Force-induced sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**One Day**

III.

"The mighty Gardulla would like a word with you, if you please."

The slave woman's heart skipped a beat. Not the mighty Hutt herself. None of the slaves saw much of their actual owner – they worked behind the scenes for the most part, at all the tasks which a Hutt's gross physiology would not permit with ease. They mattered nothing to Gardulla…and so the new mother had no illusions that the mistress might be coming to wish her congratulations.

Soon enough the doorway was darkened by an obscenely large shadow, and the pervasive stench of Hutt filled the small room.

"It reeks of human in here," Gardulla complained, waving a pudgy arm in disdain. She snorted through two wide flat nostrils. "So. A new slave." Her wide jaws curled into a slimy smile, and a purple tongue slowly trailed over the lipless edges, leaving a glistening viscous film.

"Your ladyship," the mother answered, lowering her eyes. She trembled.

"Let me see the brat," Gardulla ordered, and one of her attendants rushed forward to wrest the sleeping boy from his mother's protective arms.

Gardulla cuddled the tiny body close to her own flabby breast, leering down at him with enormous slitted eyes. The infant woke to this horrific sight and thrashed wildly, his back arching in terror and his voice filling the room with violent screams.

"He's strong," the Hutt remarked. "And just _delicious."_

The mother watched as the Hutt's tongue ran over her mouth again. The loathsome worm could swallow a human infant whole in one gulp, and burp up the diaper. Or so the legend went. It was easy to believe now, watching the evil mistress slavering over the tiny pink form cradled in her arms. But she did not eat him.

"How much do you think I could get on the market for this morsel?" she inquired evilly.

""Six hundred or so," a voice answered from behind. The Hutt was so fat she blocked the view of the passage beyond.

"I suppose you want to keep this thing?" the Hutt asked the mother, who dared not make any reply, but kept her eyes demurely lowered.

"Well, I could use another slave. And he'll be worth more when he's a little older," Gardulla reasoned aloud. "You can pay me back the six hundred I'd earn. I'll find you some extra work." The infant was returned to the mother's arms.

"Thank you, my lady," the mother murmured. Extra work? She was worked to the bone. But she would work to the very marrow of her bones to save this precious child, this gift which was a curse, this burden which was a delight, this weakness that was her new strength. She knew what to name the boy, too. He was a double-edged blade.

"Hm," the Hutt answered, wriggling and squirming her way back into the corridor. The mother stared after her retreating back, the last whip of tail, the greasy smear on the flagstones where the Hutt had been. Alone again, she clutched the boy to her chest and rocked back and forth, singing a lullaby in a broken voice.

* * *

><p>"I would like a word with the prisoner, if you please."<p>

He pulled the dark cowl over his face, concealing his identity. Outside, far below, revelers still wandered the courtyards and avenues of the palace. Naboo knew how to celebrate. But he had made his excuses, pleading the aggravation of a middle age he did not truly feel, and closeted himself in his private chambers to attend to business. Senator he might now be, but there were other pressing matters which claimed his attention.

Soon enough the guards dragged in the only survivor, a black and red tattooed Zabrak. A young male, muscles rippling, head as yet unbowed. His cranial horns stood up sharp like tongues of flame along his brow and skull. He was magnificent in his hatred – it lapped over the parsecs like the waves of some boiling ocean. Ah…

"Who are you?" this prisoner demanded of him. Of his hologram, so many lightyears away. The Zabrak's eyes were already a hollow golden color, bereft of all but vengeance.

"Who are you?" he answered.

"I am the last of my people!" the Zabrak bellowed. "My whole clan was slain – today- and I am all that is left. I am _nobody_ !"

"But I understand that you killed the man responsible for their deaths. Is not vengeance enough for you? Does that not give you a new self?"

The Zabrak shook his head wildly, and the guards tightened their grip. The Senator knew that the young warrior had killed his foe with his bare hands- no mean feat. The man sent to massacre his village had been trained by the Senator himself, in private. His end was insignificant, for in dying and failing he had revealed a new and better student in this fearsome Zabrak. He also knew that the red and black youth standing before him was badly hurt – another sign of greatness, for the pain fueled his strength, gave him focus and power. The Zabrak could be useful. Very useful.

"Did you recognize the weapon of your foe?" he asked mildly.

"A sword, a sword of light!" the young warrior howled, the memory searing through him and renewing his pain and anger.

"He was a Jedi," the Senator smiled. Sith, Jedi, what was the difference anyway? One was but a pallid echo of the other.

"Are there more such Jedi?" the Zabrak demanded. His mind was simple like that of any youth, of any savage culture. He wanted to exact genocide for genocide. It was his notion of justice.

"Yes. I'm afraid there are."

"Then they are my enemies forever! I will kill every last one of them and drink their blood!" He paused, chest heaving in rage. "Are you one of them?" he added, fury lighting his eyes with manic fire.

"No, no, my friend…I am someone who wishes to help you."

The Zabrak nodded and drew in several more trembling breaths, shaking in his captors' hands. "If that is true, then I am your servant," he promised in a broken voice.

* * *

><p>"Master Windu. A word with you I must have, hm."<p>

"Of course, master." They retired to a private meditation room, a small chamber located conveniently off the adjacent concourse. Yoda clambered atop one of the low cushions while Mace folded himself upon the opposite seat. Shafts of dark and light fell across them from the half-shuttered windows.

"Your saber form yesterday," Yoda grunted. "Like it I do not."

Mace dipped his head. "I understand, master. I accept the correction."

But the old troll perked his ears in vexation. "Correct you I did not. Like and dislike. Not important are they. Hm. Even Yoda's opinion infallible is not."

The tall master hazarded a small smile at the revered teacher. "Master," he objected gently. "I value your opinion above every other Jedi I know. To me –"

"Nonsense," the tiny Jedi snorted, waving aside his words with one hoary claw. He grunted and pulled the frayed edges of his robe about his shoulders. Looking suddenly small and frail, so unlike the bright flare that was his presence in the Force. "The future is dark." He declared.

Mace waited for him to say more, but apparently that was all he had to offer.

"Do you mean that …I may have need of what I have learned? That all things have a place and a time?"

No answer. This was how Yoda taught.

"Or that this may be the beginning of a dark path?"

No answer. The ancient being grunted and wriggled, fussing with his robes. One eye narrowed as he considered Mace Windu closely.

The dark-skinned man stood, towering in his flowing robes and sharp white trousers. His boots were nearly level with Yoda's head. "If that is what you have foreseen, master, then hear me. I renounce what I have discovered and practiced. I will never again use or teach it to another soul. I will swear this on my oath as a Jedi." His eyes blazed.

Yoda looked up at him and made another snuffling noise. "Sit, sit,sit," he ordered. "Hmmmph."

Mace compromised, dropping to one knee. "Which is it, master?"

"My Padawan you are no longer. You tell me, Mace Windu. Which is it?"

That was unexpected. He stood again, and his gaze rested upon the lines of brilliant sunlight juxtaposed against the dark stripes of the window covering. "I will have need of it, master. The Force showed it to me, for a reason I do not yet understand. It is a gift, and I will accept it…with due caution."

Yoda coughed again and cleared his throat. "Wise you are become," he admitted, in his rasping broken voice.

* * *

><p>"My love. May I have a word with you, please?"<p>

"Of course." The Prince signalled to the driver, and their craft came to a hovering pause high in the crystal blue sky, a glorious vista of unsullied forest spread out below them, the glinting thread of waterfalls visible among the tumbled slopes of mountains. Purple clouds gathered lazily in the distance.

"There is something I have not told you."

He wondered if that were true, for many of the things she did not say in words were plainly written in her eyes, her voice, the gentleness of her actions. She said more than she thought she did.

"Do not be angry," she pleaded, quite unnecessarily. "A sacred vow binds me. Now that we are wed, I feel bound to tell you and exact the same promise on your behalf. I place not only my own honor but that of many worthy people in your care by so doing."

His heart thumped wildly. In an instant he grasped that Breha was his wife; but that in so uniting himself to her, he had become the consort of the system's ruler. He knew without being told that she intended to impart to him a state secret – something that would forever change his life. "I hope to be worthy of such trust," he choked out.

Breha turned her liquid amber eyes upon him. "My love. There are many in our people's oldest families – many in the court, and others outside it – who belong to an ancient order. We have taken a sacred vow of loyalty to the Republic."

And that was secret why? He wondered.

"Not to the Senate, nor to the Chancellor, nor to anything but the ideals on which our society is founded. Should there ever arise a time, my love, when the government betrays those ideals…"

He blanched. "You mean secession?"

But Breha was more courageous than any man he had thus far met. She might rival a Jedi in her own quiet way. She did not flinch. "Yes, my love. Or _rebellion._"

"Gods, Breha."

"You feel the same, or I would not have married you," she told him, her regal chin high. And he looked into her eyes, and through them into her soul, and he knew that it was true. If ever – may heaven forbid it and grant him a swift death before that day should it ever arise – he knew where his heart lay.

Bowing his head, feeling his throat constrict as he pronounced the words that would seal his fate, he gripped her hands between his. "I will swear myself to this purpose also," he whispered in a broken voice.

* * *

><p>"Please inform the Poo-jam that we would like a word with him – at his <em>first<em> possible convenience."

"His Eminence is presently unable to receive any visitors, master Jedi. May I take a message to him?"

The shorter Jedi – cloaked in a brown robe which fell to the floor in dark folds – took a small step forward and tipped his face up to the bland servant's. One hand peeped from beneath the hem of the sleeve, tracing a soft gesture in the air. "You want to fetch him immediately. You think our request is more important than his present business….And you want to go to him at a brisk run."

"Padawan." Qui Gon's tone was stern. He watched the unfortunate servant scurry away down the passage as fast as his thin legs could carry him, the coattails of his livery flapping comically behind him.

"He's a pathetic life form, master," the young Jedi argued.

The master raised one eyebrow. "Do it again, and you'll be the one taking a brisk run – say, twenty klicks every morning for a month. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, master." The apprentice dropped his eyes to the floor and tugged at the shoulder of his cloak, adjusting the fall of cloth so that it concealed the sling in which his left arm rested.

If the master's meaning was perfectly clear to his student, it was far from clear to the Grand Poojam, who came hustling back down the corridor a few minutes later, his embellished vest and pantaloons ballooning behind him. A retinue of minor assistants and servants trotted in his wake. He came to a halt before the Jedi, his nose tilting upward haughtily.

"You disappear from the scene for nearly a whole day and then you have the gall to _summon_ me to your presence like a court eunuch? Who do you think you are, master Jedi?"

Qui Gon was imperturbable. "More to the point, your Eminence: would you rather speak to me or to the High Executive of the Banking Clan?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," the Poojam spluttered.

"You don't recall contracting with the Banking Clan for full insurance of your Treasury?" the Jedi master asked doubtfully. "I'm confident the Executive will. I have a copy of the full contract here." He withdrew his datapad and tapped the screen with one long finger.

"The Banking Clan has separate criminal jurisdiction from the Republic," the Jedi Padawan reminded him smoothly. "We can forget the affair and let your lawyers deal directly with them."

The Poojam glowered down at the young man. "How dare you, you upstart–"

"The Togorian s who robbed you yesterday," Qui Gon cut in. "What percent of the insurance payment did you promise them? And how long were they to wait until returning your goods?"

The Poojam stared at the Jedi in disbelief, his jaw hanging open like a broken toy. "Nonsense!" he shouted. "Why would I have _you _here if I intended to rob myself?"

"To lend credibility to the event," the Jedi master frowned. "I do not appreciate being used as a prop in your elaborate farce, your Eminence. Nor does my Padawan. He was nearly cut down by the Togorians outside your door – defending you from what he thought was certain destruction."

The Poojam deflated a bit and cast a guilty look in the Padawans' direction. "I really didn't expect a _child _to be involved, " he pleaded nervously.

The young Jedi was stony faced. "Are you coming with us or shall we convey our information to the Banking Clan?" he asked tonelessly.

The Poojam bowed his head. "You," he replied in a defeated, broken voice.


	4. Chapter 4

One Day

IV.

"Anakin."

"An-a-kin," the elderly accountant scrawled onto the datapad's touch screen, the electro-stylus buzzing with static. "We'll call him Skywalker like you…since you don't remember the father's name." The elderly servant gave the mother a sardonic look and entered a few more stats. "Make sure you take good care of him. Gardulla is entrusting you with keeping her property in fine working order."

Shmi Skywalker was too intelligent to offer nay rebuttal to the cruel words. "I'll take good care of him," she promised.

But it was a promise made to the universe, or to whatever power lay beyond it. She owed Gardulla nothing, and her son owed the Hutt even less. She wrapped the blanket around his small body more tightly and made the short walk across the compound back to the slave quarters. Overhead the stars shone. The baby twisted one small hand free of the bindings and stretched, his tiny fist seeming to reach for the glittering orbs above, his exquisite miniature fingers opening and closing in a fist, as though to grasp one, perhaps to pop it in his mouth.

"You can't eat the stars, little Ani, " his mother reminded him, planting a kiss on his forehead. His blue eyes struggled to focus on her face at such a close distance, and then he sneezed.

"You! Get inside – it's nearly curfew!" Her paces quickened obediently. Violating curfew meant a whipping. Worse, it meant a night spent alone in the desert, exposed to the cold and the evil Tusken raiders.

A sentinel droid buzzed by, its little round body leaving an eddy of hot air behind as it floated down into the underground living space. The baby tracked its moving form with his eyes, his mouth widening into an "o" of surprise or pleasure or desire. Shmi fiddled with the slave bracelet clamped around his ankle. The sentinels were programmed to seek and locate runaways, stray slaves, missing property. Someday her baby would not think the menacing little tracker droids so lovely and wonderful. Someday he would know fear, and hunger, and loneliness – and perhaps even despair. These were his birthrights.

But not tonight. Tonight was for safety and love and comfort. She disappeared into the shadow of the slave quarters' entry. The fear and the pain and the longing…these were not for tonight. They would have to wait. Like so many other things, they belonged to the future.

* * *

><p>"Senator Palpatine."<p>

How lovely that title sounded – but not lovely enough. He would prefer Chancellor. And really, truly, his heart would not be satisfied with anything less than _Emperor_. But Senator had a pleasant lilt to it – a good beginning. "Yes?"

"Your transport is waiting, Senator."

"Ah, yes. Thank you." The gleaming ship sat primly on its landing prongs outside the palace. It would convey him to his new home, his new seat of power. With his election came the necessity of dwelling on Coruscant, the throbbing heart of the Galactic Republic. His voice would be a quiet, reliable presence in the Legislative Rotunda. He would be loved and respected, trusted and admired. He had foreseen it. More importantly, he had willed it and planned it from the very beginning.

The pilots bowed to him as he passed. It wasn't enough. He would make his new Zabrak apprentice kneel before him in due time. That was the proper posture of respect. The first few weeks he would make the young warrior prostrate himself, face first, upon the floor before him. He was the master, and there would be no mistake. In a world where there was room only for Two, the One must reign supreme. He knew. Oh, he knew.

They offered him drinks and food as the ship launched into hyperspace. He declined politely. What need did he have of such things when his spirit was supping on an eternal repast of dark? The void of space fed the Dark, and it spread like a warm stain upon his heart, suffusing his very blood with its burning chill. Power. There was only Power, and those too weak to reach out and grasp it. On this, his day of victory – the first of many such days – the Dark promised him a smooth road, a fair journey. It rippled and cosseted him, telling lies and painting flattering pictures. He did not listen. He was wiser than the Dark, He was its master.

His meditation was disturbed when they made an unexpected stop at a Republic space station halfway to Coruscant. A servant informed him they had picked up Ambassadors from the Supreme Chancellor. The Dark told him they had picked up two vile, festering clots of tainted blood – Jedi. He was gracious to them when they entered the passenger compartment. A tall seasoned man and his adolescent Padawan, they were gracious back. No love was lost on either side of the exchange. The Senator hated Jedi, and the Jedi distrusted politicians. Then they left, making him very low, formal bows – the perfect courtesy mocking him with a subtle arrogance only members of their accursed order could achieve.

And then, without warning, just as the second Jedi, the younger one, passed out the door, he turned his head halfway over one brown cloaked shoulder and looked straight into the Senator's soul with piercing blue-green eyes. For an infinite moment the unifying Force opened between them, widening into a vista of possibilities and destinies yet unrealized. The Padawan's gaze widened in childlike confusion, his young face registering surprise and uncertainty.

A heartbeat later, the older one called him and he exited, the spell broken. Had he seen something? Impossible. There was no more perfect mask than the one the Senator wore, for it extended deep into his psyche. And the Jedi had clearly been inexperienced, caught off guard by his own Force-perception. The brat wouldn't even know what to make of it. Still, the encounter left him shaken. He decided to find out the young man's name. Just to make a private note. In case their paths ever crossed again.

Because nothing, especially not some skinny upstart Jedi whelp, was going to stand in the way of his dreams. No, there was nothing past or present that would stop him from claiming what was his by right: the future.

* * *

><p>"Vapaad."<p>

"Dark's edge? Va-paad you call this?" Yoda snorted in disdain. "Silly name. Like child's game."

"You like children's games, master," Mace reminded him gently.

The ancient Jedi twitched an irritated ear in his direction and scrunched his nose. "Your game. You name it," he admitted sullenly. He stumped across the space on his stick, body stiff with age and weariness. Sometimes Mace wondered if he affected the hobbling gait for fun. Force knew he didn't show any sign of _stiff joints_ when he was dealing out swift lessons to the advanced masters in a saber training session. Even Anoon Bondara often walked away from a sparring bout with Yoda sporting bruises and sprains and burns.

"Pretending I am not," the tiny master called over his shoulder as he left. "Vapaad," he muttered again, stumping down the corridor.

Mace bowed to him, although he had disappeared from view. He let a rare grin suffuse his dark face. Yoda was beyond pleased. He was proud. And Mace was absurdly pleased to have made him so proud. He swung his saber experimentally, deciding to compose a few kata for his new form. He could teach it to Depa. She was ready. Perhaps a few others. The Order would need warriors who could dance on the edge of darkness without danger of falling.

He was certain, because he saw just that in the future – a bridge over destruction narrowing with the years, until it was a razor thin line offering a fall to Darkness on either hand. And the Jedi balanced atop this terrible bridge, swaying. He knew he would lead them in that precarious moment, and he had turned to the Force for guidance and strength.

Vapaad was the answer – or part of the answer. He launched into the first kata, a simple exposition of the basic moves. It was a good beginning. Anoon Bondraa would be completely appalled. With another fierce grin, Mace performed the dance faster and faster, purple saber howling joyfully around him in a sphere of light. Darkness was attracted to him, like a moth, and then was caught and burned in its own inverted energy. He shone darkly in the Force, the wrath of Light.

Let it come, with whatever lay in wait. He would be ready for the future.

* * *

><p>"Bail."<p>

"Goodbye my love. I won't be long. I'm sorry I have to go at all."

Breha Organa smiled teasingly up at him, her hands resting on his ruffed collar – the latest fashion, but understated. He did not care for extravagance in dress. "Better you than me," she murmured.

"Ah! I've married the most ruthless woman on the planet. You would throw your husband to the wolves?"

"Coruscanti wolves," she nodded solemnly. "Come back to me in one piece, with your honor intact."

He bowed. "I promise you," he answered, half serious just as she had been.

"When my uncle retires, you may be called upon to run for Senator," she reminded him.

"Breha! Is this a time to burden my heart with dark days ahead?"

She smiled and walked the last few paces by his side. At the bottom of the boarding ramp he offered her a final formal salute, a kiss on both cheeks. "I'll bring you a souvenir," he offered gallantly. "Perhaps a Jedi? Can we keep one about the place?"

She laughed. "No, no, no. We want no such trouble here on peaceful Alderaan. Bring me back a report on your new acquaintances."

"I shall. The new Senator from Naboo is hosting a dinner party for the most popular and important people. Naturally, I'm invited."

Breha Organa's soft eyes followed him up the ramp as he entered the belly of the cruiser. He kept his back straight, his stride even and his eyes ahead. Ahead lay Coruscant, and political entanglements and endless diplomacy. Ahead lay an uncertain and ever-changing future.

* * *

><p>"Obi-Wan."<p>

"Sorry, master." The Padawan wrenched his eyes away from the Senator and hurried after Qui Gon into the adjacent salon – much smaller and less comfortable than the suite occupied by the politician they had just greeted. They took up seats on the thinly padded benches built into the bulkheads.

"Are you disturbed by something, Padawan?" Qui Gon stretched out his long legs. They spanned the entire aisle.

"I'm not sure, master."

This provoked a weary chuckle. "You mean you're not sure whether you _ought_ to be disturbed. Out with it."

"The Senator…"

"Is annoyed that his one-way flight made a detour to pick us up. You will find that politicians are singularly self-centered that way, young one. It is nothing to waste your attention on. You must learn to distinguish between another being's irritation and a true disturbance in the Force."

Obi Wan frowned over this, ever the serious student. But Qui Gon could sense that there was something more behind his agitation. "You found his attire tasteless and ill-fitting?" he suggested lightly.

The Padawan's eyes glittered. "I'm well accustomed to such a mortifying sight, master."

The Jedi master raised his eyebrows.

"There was a moment when I sensed something amiss," Obi Wan continued, soberly.

"A premonition?"

"I think so. But it was so vague…and I couldn't hold onto it. It was elusive. I can't explain."

Qui Gon considered his apprentice thoughtfully. The boy displayed a startling gift for foresight – something the Force bestowed upon some Jedi. It was a double edged gift, bringing insight into the future at the cost of terrible nightmares and temptations. Visions, or vague "bad feelings" such as Obi Wan more and more frequently experienced, could be a dangerous distraction. "Keep your attention here and now," he advised, watching his young student's face intently. "Such feelings are difficult to interpret, and impossible to control. Let them pass through you without trying to grasp at them."

"Yes, master."

Qui Gon wasn't satisfied. He felt the Dark coiling around his pupil, in morbid curiosity. In envious admiration. _Stay away from him,_ he growled inwardly.

"Qui Gon?"

"It's nothing. Where's your sling? I thought the droid told you to keep that arm immobilized for a week?" The boy colored slightly. "Ah…I see. You hope to evade the healers' notice when we disembark at the Temple. Very cunning. But you've overlooked one factor: me."

"You won't-"

"I propose a compromise. I shall do nothing to interfere with your underhanded scheme - on one condition: you rest during the remainder of this transit. And put that bad feeling out of your mind."

"But-"

"You can't out-negotiate a master diplomat," Qui Gon pointed out serenely. "DO we have an agreement, Padawan?" He fixed the young Jedi with a penetrating look.

A sigh. "Yes, master."

"Excellent." Qui Gon pointed to the opposite bench and smiled as Obi Wan resigned himself to his fate with another sigh, stretching out on the narrow seat and closing his eyes. Soon he was wrapped in a light trance, tranquil in the Force's gentle currents.

There was no way to know what the vision had meant, or whether it meant anything. Qui Gon was devoted to the living Force, and not gifted with foresight except on the rarest occasions. He did not trust the glimpses of possibility which he did sometimes see. A Jedi was to act in the present – in the full, Force saturated present, where all reality and light dwelled. The future…belonged to the future.


End file.
